


An Evening in London

by RichieBrook



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets, Miles Kane - Fandom
Genre: (idk - tagging just to be safe), Angst, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21804355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RichieBrook/pseuds/RichieBrook
Summary: It's the 23rd of December. This is Miles' evening in five acts.This was written for the Milex Big Bang 2019.
Relationships: Miles Kane/Alex Turner
Comments: 11
Kudos: 62
Collections: Milex Big Bang 2019





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Or: the tale of why I'm (not so) secretly in love with Miles.
> 
> This was based on one of my favourite novels, _The Evenings: A Winter's Tale_ by Gerard Reve.

It’s still dark, in the early morning hours of the twenty-third of December, when Miles, tangled in a mess of sheets and the tracksuit bottoms he intended to put on before passing out, awakes. The smell of liquor is pungent, distinctly noticeable to him even after he’s slept in it for the past ten or eleven hours and as memories from the night before come flooding back to him, Miles stretches out one arm to the other side of the bed. The mattress is still warm, but there’s no one there. He feels a bit sorry. The woman he fell into bed with last night (Ashley something, or Aisling perhaps) was nothing short from gorgeous. He wouldn’t have minded a round two. He doesn’t get to lament the loss for too long. As soon as he turns onto his other side he dozes off once more.

He dreams he’s ten years old again, and he’s at Cal’s place. He knows it’s Cal’s place because he’s in the middle of a cosy little study, sitting in front of a sturdy wooden desk, its surface almost invisible under at least a dozen of colourful computer game cases. He looks around, just to make sure he’s really back there. The room hasn’t changed since he was last there. The faded beige walls breathe the same dusty yet inviting air and there’s a large print of an antique map of the city of Liverpool tacked to it right above the boxy Windows ’95 computer on the desk. The sleeper sofa Miles used to sleep on when he stayed the night is still under the dormer window. Next to it is the family’s fake Christmas tree, hidden away in its holey cardboard box as it awaits its time to shine. There are book cases and Disney VHS tapes, and wobbly stacks of CDs. They’re mostly classical music but there’s some old sixties stuff as well, and although it’s the sort of music that sounds unfamiliar and even a little odd to him, they really aren’t half bad. Miles’ chest fills itself with childish glee at being back here. Cal isn’t here, but Miles turns on the computer like they always do and waits for it to load, impatiently wriggling in the comfy swivel chair. As soon as the little hourglass next to the cursor disappears, he clicks the icon for his favourite game. It’s not one of those fancy games from the colourful cases that Cal prefers; this one is the minimalistic pinball game that came with the computer. The genuine, childish excitement ten year-old Miles feels is almost comparable to the feeling thirty-three year-old Miles feels right before a gig. He taps his feet against the floor and smiles toothily at the familiar whooping sound that fills the study as he launches the ball. He watches it get propelled all the way up and onto the table, his heart pounding on the beat of the ‘woosh’, ‘ping’ and ‘bingbingbing!’ sound effects attached to each of the targets. The lights on the table flash as the ball darts across it, the shine of them reflected in Miles’ eager eyes. He tries to score as many points as he can before the inevitable fall of the ball down the outlane, and he’s really good at that; he’s better at it than Cal and all their other friends combined, but today the ball won’t listen to him. It darts across the table uselessly, hitting random targets that Miles isn’t aiming for, and Miles’ excitement slowly turns into dread as the room grows darker and its usually homey stuffiness turns suffocating. He doesn’t get the time to wonder what turned his mood like that, because suddenly the study is gone altogether and there’s just the table and the ball — no, he _is_ the ball, and his breath catches in his throat as he’s sucked down the drain, which, even in the dark, seems strangely familiar, and yet he can’t quite place it. Not that he has the time to. His heart’s in his throat and just he _keeps tumbling down_. There’s nothing to grab onto, there’s nothing there to help him slow his fall, and he’s hyperaware of how hard the inevitable impact with the floor will be, and so he starts protesting mid-air, frantically feeling around for the walls of the drain, but they’re not there and he keeps falling and falling and falling, and then suddenly it all just _stops_. The fall is surprisingly soft, and Miles finds himself on a mustard yellow surface that feels gentle and familiar to the touch. He lies down on his back and shuts his eyes tightly, pressing one hand against the soft floor and one against his pounding heart. Warm, welcome relief allows him to breathe again and yet

his chest and neck are covered in a thin, sticky sheen of sweat when he awakes a second time. He hurries to free himself from the tangled bedsheets and sits up, his heart hammering. He wipes his forehead with his fingertips and sucks in a gulp of air, willing it down its throat and holding his breath before breathing out again with his eyes closed.

When he picks up his phone from the nightstand its display glares at him accusingly: it’s gone past two already. There are tens of unread messages too, mostly from the same person. Miles doesn’t have the heart to delete them, but he can’t bring himself to read them either. He puts the phone back and gets up, surprised when no wave of nausea hits him despite the fact that he can still smell the alcohol on his own breath. He pads to the window and opens it, goosebumps forming on his chest and arms as cold winter air hits bare skin. The skies are so foggy and dense with rain yet to fall that he can barely make out the tall apartment building on the other side of the street. His tongue feels like sanding paper in his mouth. He sticks his head out the window, opens his mouth and closes it again, half expecting to come away with a mouthful of water to soothe his tongue, water that tastes of grey. But nothing happens, except that his face feels cold now, too. It’s not unpleasant. It wakes him up properly.

He closes the window and stalks to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. He studies himself in it; squeezes his bicep, traces his abdominal muscles with his index finger, dips his fingers into the coarse hair right below the elastic band of his boxer shorts, and shrugs his shoulders. He looks like himself alright. All is well in the world and there is no reason whatsoever why today cannot be a good one. It has to be. Donning a pair of tracksuit bottoms and his leopard print robe, he goes into the living room.

Jay’s on the sofa, curled up under a ratty blanket. The floor surrounding him is littered with beer bottles and empty wine glasses, some from last night, some from the nights before. Miles has lost count of how many strangers he’s invited over in the last week or so. If Jay hadn’t shown up on his doorstep last night, he’d still be blissfully ignoring him now, along with all his other friends. He approaches him with a deliberate spring in his step. “Good morning, Sunshine! How are we feelin’ today?” he asks, taking a pillow and tossing it at Jay’s head.

Jay groans and presses the pillow against his face. “Like death if you must know,” he murmurs. “Remind me to never come to one of your parties again. Coffee, Miles, please.”

Miles snickers. “One coffee comin’ right up,” he promises, and dodges the pillow that Jay sends flying back at him.

“Your bird left, by the way,” Jay calls after him. “Hours ago. Made a racket that still has my fucking head pounding. Had to catch a train to Devon, she said. She left her number and all.”

Miles huffs. “Tasteless. I’m more exciting than Devon. _Please_ tell me I’m more exciting than fuckin’ Devon, Jay.” Jay just groans and Miles disappears into the kitchen to make them coffee.

The sight from the kitchen window is identical to that from the bedroom. Miles squints at the vague outline of the office building he knows should be visible from here. He briefly entertains the thought that maybe, just maybe, a thick layer of fog wrapped itself around his apartment and his apartment only. It might catch him when he tries to step outside later; squeeze the air right out of him until he combusts into thousands of little raindrops is what it would do. That’d be something alright.

He puts two slices of bread into the toaster and watches it do its magic from above, ignoring the smell as the irons get redder and the toast blacker. He can’t bring himself to turn it off, not until Jay yanks him from his own thoughts with an “Oi! Are you trying to burn down your kitchen or what?” Miles plates the blackened slices of toast and butters them thickly, then takes the plate back into the living room, along with two cups of strong black coffee, the leopard gown swishing behind him. Jay scrunches up his nose at the smell and stares at the toast in horror.

“Too crispy for you, eh?” Miles asks, handing him a cup of coffee. “Don’t worry, you can make yer own breakfast, big boy.” He winks and disappears into the bedroom again, closing the door behind himself with a gentle click.

He eats in bed and watches black crumbs fall from his plate, before they disappear out of sight as they nestle themselves into his bedding. He reckons that’s a good thing. At least if he’s uncomfortable he won’t be tempted to waste any more of his day in bed. It wouldn’t be the first day he’s wasted like that: He came home from tour a little over a week ago and he’s spent the majority of his time off at home, sleeping, drinking, inviting people over that he doesn’t know and shagging them. If Jay hadn’t been so persistent and showed up at his apartment unannounced, Miles wouldn’t even have thought of inviting him over last night. He takes another bite of his toast and shifts slightly. The crumbs prickle the back of his legs. He really ought to get moving if he wants to avoid a repeat of the past couple of days. It is now half two, which means he’s wasted a lot of time already — time on a day that should be nothing but good. It’s December twenty-third after all, his last chance at seeing his friends before they all go home for the holidays, and he’s not getting another shot at December twenty-third, not this year anyway. He needs to make it count. He needs to get moving. And so he drinks his coffee, finishes his meagre breakfast and goes into the bathroom for a quick shower. A few crumbs sticking to his tracksuit bottoms fall to the floor and leave a trail to the bathroom, along with Miles’ robe, trackies and boxer shorts as he sheds them on his way there. After his shower he combs his hair and decides against styling it, leaving the blond strands fluffy and unkempt. He dresses in a pair of dark jeans and a fitted burgundy turtleneck, the chain around his neck falling nonchalantly on top of it. Miles smiles at his reflection in the mirror. He looks awake and healthy, and he _really_ ought to get going. It doesn’t matter where to, as long as he gets out of the house as quickly as possible. He decides against wearing his Gucci loafers and puts on a pair of heavy, equally shiny Chelsea boots instead, then finishes the ensemble with a thick black coat and tartan scarf.

“Jay? Hey, I’m goin’ for a walk, yeh comin’?”

Jay hacks out a laugh. “A walk. You’ve gone mad, Kane. You might not be familiar with the concept, but us mere humans suffer from hangovers after they drink as much as you and I did last night. Trust me, there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere until I find the courage to drag myself home. Count me out. Where are you going, anyway?”

Miles shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno. Thought I might just walk, get some exercise.”

“Oh yeah?” huffs Jay. “I don’t think that’s a great idea, Miles. You know what I think? I think you should be on your way to Alex’s right about now.” He sets his empty coffee mug down on the floor and covers his eyes with one hand as he lies back down. “I bet he’d be thrilled if you suddenly showed up on his doorstep. Get him a little something, maybe — hell, buy him flowers. Think of what a grand romantic gesture that would make, eh? He’d love that. I mean, I haven’t spoken to him often, but even I can tell he’s all — ” What Alex is exactly Miles will never know, as Jay waves his hand in the air in a vague, nondescript gesture and trails off, turning onto his side and pressing his face into the sofa pillows. “I’m going to be _sick_. Anyway. What I’m saying is, you two would be Britain’s most adored celebrity couple by tomorrow if you went to see him today. So maybe go see him today.”

Miles tugs at the slightly longer strands of hair at the back of his neck. “I’m not going to Alex’s,” he says. “It’s not that kind of day.”

After all, it’s almost Christmas. It’s the sort of day to relax, be carefree and have fun. It’s not the ‘going to see Alex’ sort of day. It’s a day that ought to count. And yet here he is, still wasting it like an idiot. He has to get out. He has to get some fresh air, it’s his only option.

“Anyway, suit yerself,” he tells Jay. “Close the door when yeh leave.” He gets another grunt in return and then he’s finally on his way outside. He doesn’t bother with the spring in his step this time.


	2. II

Miles is standing in the middle of a dark grey canvas. Apartment buildings tower over him like ghosts and the road ahead of him is barely visible. The cold hasn’t suffocated him like he thought it might, but it has wrapped itself around him like a thick, clammy blanket. It doesn’t matter, because he knows that taking a walk is the healthy, sensible thing to do. It’s the thing that Alex would do, except Alex would be calm and genuine about it. Miles isn’t feeling particularly calm and genuine. It’s gone past three already. His forehead and nose feel cold and wet. He’s surrounded by tiny particles of water that aren’t visible but are definitely tangible. It’s a good thing he didn’t style his hair. It’s already soaked, meaning all his efforts would have gone to waste, and then where would he be?

He has to start walking. Everything depends entirely on his own volition today. Without it, the day might just come to a standstill altogether and so might Miles, frozen in one spot like a wax sculpture of himself. He quickly pushes that thought to the back of his mind and starts to walk. His feet are cosy and warm in his thick socks and boots, and he puts on some music to match his stride. He’d like to see some Christmas lights, but there are none in this part of town. They could hardly put up lights in every part of town though, Miles knows that. There’d be a big spotlight on London if they did; all would be revealed and the rest of the world would get the opportunity to watch and scrutinise every single movement in the city. He shivers involuntarily, his throat closing up at the thought. It’s the sort of thing Alex would write a song about, but not him. Miles has never understood Alex’s predilection for writing songs that try to make sense of the world. It just wouldn’t do to write about big spotlights on London, or to sing about being watched, or about feeling like demanding fingers are wrapped around his throat, except of course if it were to evoke pleasure and excite. It’s not Miles’ job to comment on the world. It’s his job to entertain and have a good time, and to keep himself going. Everything depends on his own volition. He has to make today count, not turn it into art. And that’s why going to Alex’s remains out of the question. Alex would recommend him books and music to ease his anxieties over wasted days and evil Christmas lights. Miles can't bear to think of the look of disappointment he'd see on Alex's face when Alex realised he wasn't helping.

His feet take him to the nearest tube station. People swarm through the gates like bees, carrying shopping bags and dragging trolleys behind them as they touch their cards in and out. Miles ducks his head. He digs up his Oyster card from his coat pocket and goes through one of the gates, halts for a second to peer at the departure boards and starts moving again. He’ll pay Victoria a visit, is what he’ll do. They haven’t seen each other since the tour ended, so it’s about time they met up again. The tube is already there and he breaks into a run to make it in time, even though he isn’t in a hurry.

The running helps him blend right in. As he steps inside, right on time and a little out of breath, he looks like a person with a purpose, just like everyone else already seated. He finds a seat by the window and watches more grey pass by as the tube darts through the tunnels. He turns up the sound of the Bowie song he’s listening to until his ears hurt and the lady opposite him gives him her best angry stare, turns it down again and back up again, then down again. He’s wide awake. He’s had coffee and breakfast, and now he’s on the move. He’s awake and energetic and alive. He may have wasted most of the day, but it’s far from over yet. There’s still plenty of time to make up for it. And make up for it he will.

“Hi, who’s there?” It’s Victoria’s girlfriend’s voice over the intercom and Miles can’t help a smile.

“It’s Miles. Thought I’d stop by and pay yehs a visit. It’s been a while!” He likes the way the pitch of his voice raises slightly at the end.

“Miles! That’s a surprise! I’ll buzz you in, come on up!”

Miles takes the steps with two at the time. He only stops when he’s on the third floor, where he finds the door to Victoria’s apartment already open. He knocks to announce his arrival and lets himself in.

Victoria and Katy are in the living room, engrossed in a game of Mario Kart, their hellos barely audible over the quirky soundtrack. Victoria’s on the sofa and Katy’s on the floor, sitting between her girlfriend’s legs on the thick carpet, with her own legs pulled up to her chest. She’s hunched over the Gamecube controller that she’s holding tightly in two hands. Miles’ upper lip twitches. He can still turn around and leave; tell them he forgot he’s otherwise engaged. But then Victoria pauses the game and grins up at him. “Well, don’t stand there like that. Come sit. Do you want a go?” She holds out the controller to him and he accepts it. Now he has to sit down, because it’s the only logical follow-up, so he does. Victoria watches him and arches her eyebrows. “You look tired. Shall I get you some coffee? A beer?”

“Aw, hey come on, make us your famous hot chocolate,” demands Katy, then turns to Miles. “She can’t stand the taste of it herself and she only ever makes it for me, so you’re in luck.”

Miles just smiles and scrolls through the characters, once, twice and again. “Hot chocolate? You’ve gone soft, Vicky,” he teases without taking his eyes off the screen.

Victoria smirks. “And you’re the lost boy who suddenly turned up in my apartment on the day before Christmas Eve. I can see in your eyes that you’d kill for a cup of hot chocolate, Kane.”

Miles picks Princess Peach. Katy lets out an indignant “Oi!”, but he shrugs his shoulders. “Didn’t ye hear? I’m lost. I get first pick.” He expects her to put up a fight, but she doesn’t and selects Yoshi instead. It causes a pit in his stomach.

“What brings you here, anyway?” Victoria calls from the kitchen. “Didn’t think you’d still be in London. Aren’t you supposed to be in The Wirral, or Sheffield even?”

And there it is. He should have known what he’d start coming here, or anywhere for that matter. Miles shrugs his shoulders and accepts a steaming cup of hot chocolate when Victoria offers it to him. She flops down onto the sofa and places her legs on either side of Katy again, who draws her knees up to her chest once more and hunches over the controller as she gets into the game. Victoria’s gaze wanders from Miles to the screen and back again. He can feel her eyes on him. One of them will ask, but all he has to do is be prepared and keep his head in the game. It’s not like him to overthink, but today he’s going to have to. Today has to be perfect and useful, and he can’t let himself be distracted by complications along the way. It will be a no ripple in the ocean kind of day.

Victoria’s still watching him. “Hey, Miles — ”

“Are you two planning on going to your parents’?”

“We’re driving down to Vicky’s tomorrow morning,” Katy supplies absently, sucking in air through her teeth as she dodges a green shell left on the racing track by Miles. Miles whistles lowly as she overtakes him.

“Anyway, Miles, did you - ”

Miles clears his throat. He reaches for his mug without averting his game from the game and sips his drink. It’s not half bad. “Lemme tell yehs somethin’,” he drawls, his eyes glued to his kart. “I heard this story, yeah? Dom told me it the other day.”

“Less talking, more driving,” Katy complains, and Victoria laughs. “Go on then, Miles. What’d Dom tell ya?”

“Well.” Miles clears his throat. “There’s this café in Camden. It’s this all around cutesie place with vintage prints on the wall and drinks named after film stars.” Victoria snorts, but he ignores her. “There’s two regular customers, this lovely lookin’ woman and a buff guy who always accompanies her. They’re perfect for each other like. She’s in this pastel green Twiggy sort of dress and he’s in a fitted suit, the dots on his tie matchin’ the colour of her dress and all. They’re picture perfect. They could’ave put ‘em on the cover of Vogue. They’re there every Saturday during lunch time; they always occupy the table in the centre of the room and order pink champagne. The people around them order cappuccinos and burgers and open up their shoppin’ bags to show each other all the stuff they bought and brag about it at the top of their voice.

But not them two, right? They just sit there, nipping their pink champagne and smiling at each other over their glasses. As if they were sharin’ a private joke, all mischievous like. He touches ‘er ‘and, ever so gently, and she rolls her eyes playfully but doesn’t pull it back. Their silence is louder than all the racket going on in the café. It starts to attract attention. Some people give ‘em jealous glares, but when that ‘appens she smiles at them in a manner so friendly that those people blush and look away, embarrassed.”

Katy yawns, but he shakes his head. “No, c’mon, we’re just getting to the good part. So more costumers start orderin’ the pink champagne and people slowly start settling down. They just… calm down. The clothes don’t matter as much anymore, and people talk quietly amongst themselvs, smiling and blushing and ordering more and more of the fancy, expensive champagne. The couple then finish their glasses and leave the café holding hands. He presses a kiss to her temple before closing the door behind them. It’s the purest, loveliest thing yeh’ve ever seen. They belong together.”

“So?” Victoria asks.

“ _So_ ,” Miles continues, “the owner of the restaurant follows them out and presses a wad of fifty pound notes in their ‘ands, thanks ‘em and tells ‘em ‘great work guys, see yehs next week’. They pocket the money, and don’t think for a second that they stick together. They don’t walk home together. There’ll be no kisses, no making out sessions until they see stars, no touches, no nothin’. They don’t even tell each other goodbye. She turns left, he turns right. When she gets home she exchanges her Twiggy dress for a tracksuit, which she wears all night, durin’ which she forgets to eat or doesn’t eat on purpose. The guy has a large bowl of cereal without milk for dinner, scratches his crotch and spends all night browsin’ Netflix, without pickin’ anythin’ at all to watch. The end.”

Victoria watches him over her cup of tea and clicks her tongue. “Jesus. What’s got you so glum?”

Miles shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not glum. I’m telling yehs a story and” — his kart crosses the finish line — “distractin’ me opponent. Successfully so, I’d say.”

“Not fair!” Katy complains. “Rematch. On Rainbow Road. And _I’ll_ be Peach this time, thanks very much.”

Miles mulls over which character to pick. Each choice matters today, especially if he can spend a good amount of time thinking it over. Vicky seizes her chance (which was inevitable, he reckons): “He _is_ in London, Miles, isn’t he? He’s here.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Victoria bumps her fist against his shoulder. “You _guess_. You’re being mopey. Not to mention the fact that you turned up on my doorstep looking like a lost puppy. So out with it. What are your plans for Christmas? Is Alex going up to The Wirral with you? You can’t _not_ go visit your mum.”

“She does expect me to make an appearance, yeah,” Miles says. He has to tread lightly and keep his head in the conversation now. If he does, he won’t say anything he shouldn’t. “I might go up tomorrow around noon, but I’ve no set plans just yet.”

“So what about Alex? Is he going with you?”

“Does that mean you’ll be celebrating your first Christmas together?” Katy beams up at him. There’s a sparkle in her eyes that makes Miles resent her for a moment.

“We won’t be spending our first anythin’ together,” he says. “I ‘aven’t exactly seen or talked to him, ‘ave I.” No one seems to understand that he can’t just go to Alex like that. It’s just not that kind of day. Miles would have to tell him all about his wasted week, which is not a tempting prospect. He can just see the worried frown etched on Alex’s forehead now. “I ‘aven’t spoken to ‘im and I don’t intend to, alright? It’s for the best.”

“You know he’d love to go to The Wirral with you, Miles. He was texting you like a madman by the last week of tour.”

Miles snorts. It’s true. Alex has made his availability quite clear to him, that’s one thing that’s for sure. He’s been back in London for almost a month now, single once more, and near the end of Miles’ tour Miles spent more time texting him than he spent talking to his band and crew. But he can’t go. Not now. Not now that Alex is single. If he went to him this time, he’d have to commit. And let’s be fair: today’s not the sort of day to set things like that into motion, on account of it being the day before Christmas Eve and all.

He huffs. “If I go to him now,” he says, “If I go to him now he’ll pack his bags and drive us to The Wirral himself. We’ll spend Christmas together, and New Year’s, and those weird empty days after that, and then what? Then where will we be?” He steers his kart off the road just for the hell of it and watches it tumble into darkness. He looks at Victoria, who meets his gaze dead on. “Would Al and I be anythin’ like you two?” he demands, and when Victoria doesn’t say anything: “Yeah, I don’t think so either. It’d be fun for a week or so, and then that’d be that. He’d find out on me. He’d realise.”

He sets his controller aside an stands before they can ask him what he’d realise, exactly. Fuck if he knows. A sudden wave of nausea rolls on his empty stomach as his hangover catches up with him after all, and he can’t help but laugh at himself. “I’ve to go. Got somewhere else to be this afternoon. Jay’s still expectin’ a visit before I leave town; I ‘aven’t seen ‘im in weeks.” He finishes his hot chocolate in two big gulps, ignoring the new wave of nausea it brings on, and wipes away the moustache with his index finger. “Thanks for the hot chocolate. And thanks for lettin’ me barge in on yehs.”

Victoria shakes her head. “None of that. We love having you over, Miles, you know that. Promise us we’ll see you at Dom’s party tonight.”

Miles sets his mug down onto the coffee table and smiles his best friendly smile. “I might drop by,” he says. “Thanks again for the hot chocolate!” His voice does that thing again where the pitch goes up and he’s quite chuffed with himself for that. The sheer emptiness in him makes him want to yell at himself. If anything, he should be turning it into something valuable like Alex would. But by lack of talent to do so, he should remain active. He should go somewhere else. Somewhere better.


	3. III

Miles is back on the tube, but this time he hasn’t even bothered to look at where he’s going. He gets off the train at Moorgate and changes to the Circle Line. He’s not sure what’s next, but he knows he has to keep moving, in circles if he has to. It’s his only option.

He stands by the doors and taps his feet against the floor until a group of tourists floods in. He ends up being sandwiched between two men with heavy suitcases, speaking loudly past him in rapid French. As soon as the tube comes to a halt again Miles all but pushes his way through the crowd and darts out. He buys himself a soggy sandwich at the kiosk and takes a grateful gulp of fresh air as he steps outside, willing the nausea to settle before he takes a careful bite of his sandwich. His empty stomach rumbles its thanks.

It takes him a second to recognise his whereabouts in the thick mist, but he starts walking again as soon as he finds his bearings. He ambles along the Victoria Embankment, his eyes finding greys upon greys upon the turbulent black waters of the River Thames upon leafless trees and that thick, oppressive sky. He considers crossing the river and checking out the Southbank Christmas Market, which no doubt has plenty of those Christmas lights he was so eager to see a couple of hours ago. But the place will be crawling with tourists and overflowing with meaningless entertainment, so he decides he can’t go. He’s looking for entertainment alright, but he couldn’t stand seeing that thirst mirrored in hundreds of eager faces — eager to force the Christmas spirit, eager for fun, for food, for cosiness. Eager to steal some cheer from the brightly lit Christmas trees.

Alex’s living room has a mustard coloured, sixties style sofa that looks horribly uncomfortable. It isn’t, though. It’s adorned with soft pillows and throws, and Miles has been known to spend entire days on it, after a night out, after a bad gig or a good gig, with a stack of DVDs or Alex’s record collection, or just to watch Alex amble about the house. To doze off next to him as Alex reads his books, or to watch wrestling together even if Alex hasn’t a clue what’s going on half the time. To blissfully waste time making out, just for the hell of it. Alex never bothers putting up a Christmas tree, but if he did that’s where it should go. Right next to the mustard yellow sofa.

It’s good to walk some more, Miles reckons. He’s doing something, which is important, and he’s just seen his friends, which is also important. He’s even had a cup of exceptional hot chocolate. In theory, this is turning out to be quite a useful day after all. But it won’t do to just keep walking. If he doesn’t make up his mind about where to go soon, restlessness will creep up on him and catch him when he’s least expecting it. It will render him powerless and send him straight back to bed, where he’ll lie amidst crumbs and the stench of liquor until his mum phones him to ask where he is, leaving him no choice but to pack in a frenzy and go back to The Wirral for a day, or a week, or months even.

It’s already getting dark and the watery cold starts to slowly seep through his clothes. He really ought to have gotten out of bed earlier. He could have written a song, or done some last minute Christmas shopping. He could have bought ingredients to cook himself a proper meal with tonight. But alas, the day is nearly over. The night however is still young. It’s almost Christmas. He should be having the time of his life.

He decides to go to the Christmas Market after all, and so he starts crossing Waterloo Bridge. A perverse longing to jump into the icy water overtakes him, and he halts in the middle of the bridge, his fingers clasping the white railing, irritatingly bright in all those blacks and greys. People brush past him, their colourful shopping bags swishing past the backs of his legs. As he stares down into the turbulent water he is reminded of a story Alex told him years ago, during their Puppets tour. They’d been in bed together on a rare day off, Alex reading some book and Miles’ curled up next to him with his face pressed into the crook of Alex’s neck. Miles remembers exactly that pleasant feeling of lethargy he’d felt, and the heaviness in his limbs as a result of a long making out session, which inevitably led to more and left them both exhausted before the morning was even out yet. It was Alex who made them coffee that morning, handing Miles his cup with a glint in his eyes and the smallest of smiles. Miles settled back into bed, very content with the prospect of spending the entire day there. Alex wrapped an arm around him and used the other to pick up the book from the nightstand.

“Any good? What’s it about?” Miles remembers asking, more to steal Alex’s attention away from the book than anything. Alex’s arm around him tightened, and he chuckled.

“A judge,” he said, reaching out to run his fingers through Miles’ buzzcut. “He’s walking and passes this woman about to jump off a bridge, but doesn’t stop. He joost keeps on walking. He halts for a second like, when he hears a splash and a scream, and yeh joost can’t ‘elp but wonder whether or not he’ll _do_ summat, but he simply goes on as if nothin’ ‘appened. Fookin’ chills me every time, that. Isn’t it mad that someone can do tha’ with words? Chill yeh reyt to the bone without ‘avin’ to rely on monsters? That’s proper writing, that is. I wish I could — ”

“What are you readin’ that shite for?” Miles raised an eyebrow. “It’s our day off. The _last_ thing I want it to see yeh sit ‘ere broodin’ all day. C’mere, give that to me.” And Alex laughed, looking as far from brooding as could be, and willingly handed over his book. Miles put it on his nightstand, setting his coffee cup down on top of it, its contents sloshing over the brim. He turned back around to catch Alex’s lips in a wet, lingering kiss.

The memory causes a horrible sinking feeling in Miles’ stomach. Alex’s preferred reads all exude an emptiness that he’d rather not familiarise himself with too much. It’s all well and grand that Alex can see it as art and let it inspire him, but it makes Miles want to bury himself under the covers of his bed and never come out again. Not only that, it reminds Miles that Alex doesn’t belong to him and never will. He’s a funny guy, Miles is; he’s a great friend, too. But if he goes to see Alex today, he’ll set into motion the long, uncomfortable process of Alex finally coming to realise that he’s way too good for funny guys.

The colour of Miles’ knuckles now matches the railing, which he still has his fingers wrapped tightly around. The river swirls and roars beneath him. He steps back abruptly and turns, continuing his way to the Christmas Market as if nothing happened. _This_ is why you have to keep moving, he reminds himself. This is exactly why.

He’s soon reminded why he tends to stay as far away as possible from tourist attractions like this one as he gets caught between a group of carol singers and the slow stream of people moving past the many stalls, like a colony of very big and extremely impolite ants. The greasy smells coming from the food stalls make him feel queasy. There’s a stall selling mulled wine and he gets himself a cup despite himself, wrapping his frozen fingers around it as he walks on. The Christmas lights adorning the trees and the roofs of each stall glow warmly and are visible even through the mist, and the wine makes him feel warm and fuzzy. He surveys the stalls as he walks, stopping here and there, looking for nothing in particular. He lingers at a stall selling hotdogs, unsure as to whether or not he can manage hangover food, but quickly decides against it as his stomach rolls and moves onto the next stall, where a cheerful woman is selling twinkling metal Christmas ornaments. She’s wearing a Santa hat and a thick, padded coat that is much too big on her, and wobbles back and forth to restock every time she makes a sale. A simple, barely decorated Christmas bell catches Miles’ eye and he reaches for it, brushing his fingers over the smooth, shiny surface. It’s very pretty. He gives it a gentle push. His lips curve into a smile as it rings. It’s a clear, pure sound that he wasn’t expecting. He does it again, and the lady in the Michelin man coat wobbles towards him and smiles.

“I make them all by hand, luv,” she tells him by way of a greeting, and Miles returns her smile. “I’m proud of that one, actually. Don’t be mistaken; it wasn’t an easy one to make despite how simple it looks. All the others sound nothing like it! I’m half hoping you’ll leave it here, to be honest with you.” She winks at him. Her cheeks dimple when she laughs and Miles can’t help but laugh along. He does quickly pulls his hand back though, and lets his gaze go over the other ornaments. There’s a tin man and a Christmas tree, a star, and a tiny owl. It’s decorated with intricate carvings and its beady little eyes seem to stare right back at Miles. The queasiness he feels as he looks at it has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he consumed last night. He sips his mulled wine and bites his lip.

“That one was a pain,” the lady laughs. “It’s pretty, everything I make is quite pretty if I may say so myself, but it was an ordeal to get it to look that way. You could say there’s a little less love in it and a bit more craftsmanship.”

Miles nods absently. The owl is still staring back at him, its glinting eyes watching him mischievously despite the heavy frown on is large metallic brow. It’s the most intricate ornament of the lot and he knows that if he were to buy one, it should be this one. It’s sophisticated.

“You’re not considering buying that one, are you.” The lady arches her brows at him and Miles watches them disappear under the Santa hat.

He shrugs. “It’s remarkable.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful alright.” She smiles. “But you look like you just saw a ghost. Don’t like owls much, do you?”

Miles shrugs his shoulders. If he were looking for conversation he would have stayed at Victoria’s. He glances at the little bell with its hidden music, and then at the owl again. The lady shakes her head. “The owl’s not for you, dearie. And don’t make that face. It’s not for me, either. Why don’t you just take the bell? I knew you’d be the one to take it home as soon as I saw you. Don’t think I didn’t see the look in your eyes, young man.”

Miles presses his lips tightly together.

“Do you have anyone special to give it to?”

Miles shakes his head. He’s starting to wish he hadn’t gotten out of bed after all. He stares at the little bell. It’s not like he was really going to buy it. It just caught his eye and he liked the sound of it is all. “Don’t worry, I weren’t going to. And if I were to buy one, I’d — ” He points at the owl. He sounds like Alex trying to get a sentence out during an interview. He quickly presses his lips together again.

She sighs. “You sound a little defeated, luv,” she says. “Tell you what, just take it with you. It’s my gift to you, because I’m not letting you walk away from here with that pesky owl.”

Miles breathes out a laugh. “What?”

“Go on,” she smiles. She’s already untangling the ornament from the fake branch it’s hanging from. Ignoring Miles’ protests, she holds it out to him. Miles starts shaking his head, but she keeps holding it out for him until he takes it. “You just take that and give it to the first person you feel like giving it to,” she tells him. “Could be someone here, could be that special someone you just lied to me about. I don’t mind either way. Just give it to someone who makes you smile.”

Miles frowns, but thanks her and tucks the ornament safely into the inside pocket of his coat. He pats the thick wool covering it with one hand, smiles at the woman one last time and sets off into the crowd again.


	4. IV

Dom’s party is well underway by the time Miles gets there. His once comfortable turtleneck and thick coat feel like layers of cold cardboard against his goosebump riddled skin and stepping into the apartment feels is stepping into a hot bath. He keeps on the coat. It’s more practical that way. He’ll warm up faster and he’ll be able to leave as soon as he fancies it. For now though he should stay. Going to a party is good. Parties in general are good. Spending some time with his friends will cheer him right up.

He pushes himself through the crowd, spotting a few familiar faces along the way. He doesn’t attempt to make conversation. If there’s anything he’s learnt today it’s that all conversations end the same way. His objective is to get to the kitchen to pour himself a little something or other to loosen up. He’ll just have a couple of drinks to soothe that restlessness that still prowls in his stomach like an impatient panther biding its chance to strike and attack. Miles can’t let it get to him. He has to tame the panther.

The kitchen is blissfully empty. The tones of Elvis’ _Blue Christmas_ seep through the cracks in the door, but the sounds of chatter and laughter die down to a pleasant murmur. He takes a deep breath and lets his eye wander over the selection of bottles on the counter. There are no glasses left, so he goes through the cupboards and finds himself a mug, which he fills up with red wine from a questionable looking bottle, absently nodding his head to the beat of Elvis’s crooning. He has a few sips and stares out the window. He knows there’s a large playground right below the building, but it’s too dark and foggy to make it out. He’s happy to stand there, with his hip resting against the window-sill, and drug the panther in his gut with the heavy red wine that he’ll definitely feel sorry about drinking by tomorrow morning. That’s fine, though. After today he deserves to stay in bed a little while longer. Maybe he even deserves to stay at home a little while longer. Wouldn’t it be ideal to just spend Christmas in his living room, sitting on the sofa and watching shitty Christmas specials? His mum would be annoyed to say the least, but it would be easy to mollify her by lying and saying he has plans with Alex. And as for Alex himself, there is no harm in ignoring him some more until after Christmas, or New Year’s even. Alex can wait. Christmas on his sofa, with lots of junk food, alcohol and bad telly, sounds about right.

“Miles! Jesus, mate. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Suddenly Dom’s there, crossing the kitchen in a few long (and somewhat unsteady) strides. Miles watches him get another beer from the fridge without a word.

“So,” Dom mumbles, in that ‘I’ve already had way too much to drink’ sort of way that usually makes Miles chuckle. He pops the cap off his beer bottle and turns to face Miles. “I was worried about you for a hot second, what with you practically disappearing off planet earth as soon as we came home. What’s going on, mate? Don’t you want to know us anymore? Were you just gonna cut us out of your life, eh?” He proffers the bottle of wine and Miles holds out his mug. Dom fills it up to the brim.

“You’re onto me,” Miles says, and smiles. “I was sick of yehs. But alas, couldn’t do it, could I. Vicky makes the best hot chocolate and you throw the best parties. I’ve no choice but to remain affiliated with the lot of yehs.”

“No choice at all,” Dom agrees, clinking his beer bottle against Miles’ mug. Wine spills over the brim of it and Miles sucks it off his fingers.

“So. Let’s go in,” Dom urges him, putting a hand between his shoulder blades and pushing him away from the window. “You’re not gonna just stand around here all night and I won’t consider tonight to be a success if it doesn’t end with you dancing your head off. C’mon.”

And so Miles lets himself be led back into the living room, clutching onto the mug as if for dear life. Nathan appears from out of nowhere, stopping short in front of him and squinting his eyes. “Well, have I ever,” he says, his eyes widening and the corner of his lips moving upwards slightly as he tries to disguise a smile. “Miles Kane! You’re alive.” He squints his eyes. “Barely though, I’d say. You look horrible.”

Miles shakes his head and Nathan goes in for a quick hug and a pat on Miles’ back. Miles leans in a little longer than is probably desirable for a quick hug hello, but if Nathan notices he doesn’t say anything. “Glad you decided to grace us with your presence,” he says instead. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you ever since we came back from tour, mate.”

Miles forces a laugh. He shouldn’t have come here. “You know how it is,” he says. “I’m a busy bee, me. Always on the move.”

“You’re still the same old idiot I became friends with, clearly. Thank fuck for that.” Nathan gives him a fond smile. It makes Miles want to punch him in the face.

Nathan, clearly sensing his discomfort, smiles again. “Come on,” he says, pulling Miles with him into the crowd. “Tell me a story, then. Don’t lie and tell me you don’t have one. You always have something on hand.”

What a night this is, Miles thinks. The room is buzzing, filled to the brim with people filled with alcohol; with soft voices and hard liquor. They’re dancing around in circles and having an all-around good time and Miles, on any other day, would be doing the exact same thing. At any other moment he’d be at the centre of attention, dancing to lovey-dovey Christmas songs and slurring along like they are, their cocktail sticky mouths endlessly moving without picking up on the softness of each song. Today, he sees them exactly for what they are. It doesn’t help him feel any less on edge, that.

Most of the people here won’t be in London for a while after tonight. For a moment he idly wonders where they’ll go and if they’ll have fun, but then the panther, still prowling nervously, lashes out and makes him wonder why he even cares. What business is it of his where Nathan will be going for Christmas, or Dom, or Victoria? What business is it of his if Alex will have a good one? It’s irrelevant.

Embarrassed by his own callousness and indifference, Miles lets Nathan direct him to the last free spot on the sofa, where he ends up clammed in between Katy, who beams at him, and a slender, dark haired man he doesn’t know. They give each other a quick nod, and then Nathan sits down on the armrest and leans over Katy, urging him on. “Tell us something we haven’t heard yet,” he encourages him. “You know you want to.” And Miles takes a big gulp of wine and nods.

“This ‘appened on a Thursday, or a Friday night perhaps,” he states. Either way, it wasn’t eight yet, because the shop on the corner of me street hadn’t yet closed. I buy a cooled bottle of white wine, which I take home in a paper bag, the bottle sweating under me arm. There’s sweat dripping down me neck, too. I remember they said it’d be like two degrees Celsius that day, but it didn’t feel like that, let me tell yeh that. Perhaps I’m thinkin’ of the wrong weather forecast though, or perhaps this happened on Wednesday and not Friday. I can’t tell and it doesn’t matter.”

The guy next to him suddenly has a wine bottle in his hands, and he tops up Miles’ mug, for which Miles gives him a grateful smile.

“So. I’m walkin’ home. I ‘aven’t had any of the wine yet, but lemme tell yeh, the city looks like a dream. The Christmas decorations are up already and the sky’s bright blue. It’s even started snowing, though the snow melts before it hits the ground, which is a shame.” The man next to him gently bumps their shoulders together as if to console him for the lack of snow, which is nice.

“It’s quiet in this part of town today when normally it’s bustling,” he continues, reaching out to lay a hand loosely on the guy’s knee. “It was only the week before that day when I saw Count A. kill his ex by drowning her in the prettiest fountain in all of London. Her head burst open on the cement at the bottom. There was so much blood that the entire fountain turned red. It’s an amazing fuckin’ story. I’ve been telling it to everyone who wants to listen. I didn’t have me phone on me, or I’d have taken pictures to prove it to yehs. When I told S. the other day she loved the story so much that she pulled me into the nearest pub, where we told everyone and danced for hours on a beer sticky floor. It was so sticky in fact that we almost got glued right to it; it might’ave trapped us forever and ever if the barman hadn’t used a broom to literally brush everyone out when closing time came. We all tumbled out onto the streets together. It was bittersweet, and none of us wanted to say goodbye.” He squeezes the knee next to him and drinks. “It’s shite, sayin’ goodbye. So we remained outside, dancin’ to music only we could hear, until darkness turned into light and suddenly we were all talking, discussing theories on what Count A. would ‘ave drowned his love in a fountain for, like. I couldn’t bear it, all the talking and speculating. It killed me.” He takes another large swallow of wine. “And it was that at that moment that I remembered the bottle under me arm, even though it might not have been there yet on that day. Maybe it was never there. Either way, I remembered the bottle and I went back home. The day after of course was nothing like it. Nothing fantastical or magical was waitin’ on me on that day. It was just a normal Monday or Sunday after all. So I went to bed early and drank the wine. I turned off the lights and went to sleep early, knowing that if I did, it’d soon be tomorrow before eight again.”

Everyone around him is quiet. The guy’s thigh is pressed flush to Miles’s now, and Miles’ hand is curled tightly around his knee. He sips from what must be his fourth or fifth mug of red. Everything in the room has taken on a fuzzy, glowing edge that reminds him of the fairy lights at the Christmas Market. Nathan makes a face, murmuring something about the story being too depressing, Katy giggles nervously, and then, before Miles knows what’s happening, the guy on his right roughly yanks him toward him and kisses him right on the lips. Miles gasps, his eyes flying wide open. For a fleeting moment he considers pulling back, but then his free hand is grasping the guy’s shoulder on its own accord, and Miles jolts forward to deepen the kiss. A few people cheer and whoop as Miles roughly parts the guy’s lips with his tongue. He leans over him, a panther jumping its prey, and groans with satisfaction as hands grope desperately and teeth click against each other. The guy whimpers under him and Miles notices cameras flash even with his eyes closed, but he doesn’t care. Suddenly all he cares for is this one kiss, this one kiss that he _can_ have, because it means fuck all. It’s just _good_. It’s the best fucking thing he’s experienced all week.

“What’d ya start that for?” he demands, gasping for breath, as they finally pull back. The guy’s pupils are dilated and he stares back at Miles with big blue eyes, his swollen, spit-shiny lips still parted. “Fuck if I know,” he pants, chuckling warily. “Just wanted to, didn’t I. _Fuck_.”

“Fuck,” Miles echoes, wiping his own lips with his thumb. His entire body feels like it’s vibrating. “Just wanted to, eh? You’re not scared, are yeh.” He wipes his lips some more and chuckles dryly. “That makes one of us then. I commend people like yerself, …?”

“Dorian,” says Dorian, and Miles smiles.

“I commend people like yeh, Dorian.” He’s about to go in for a second kiss, but then Nathan’s tugging on his arm, pulling him up and away from the sofa. “Right, that’s quite enough, Casanova. What the hell, Miles?”

“What do ye mean? I don’t think that’s anywhere near enough, Nathan, to be honest.” Miles winks at Dorian over his shoulder, and Dorian smiles. It’s a brilliant, heart-wrenching sort of smile.

“I mean you’re leading the kid on, Miles. Where’s Alex? Why didn’t you bring him?”

Miles shakes his head and opens his mouth to say something, but then suddenly the nausea returns as if out of nowhere and hits him with full force. He presses a hand against his mouth, pushes Nathan out of the way and stalks into the bathroom, where he throws up what little food was in his stomach, as well as all that wine. He holds onto the toilet seat with both hands, not sure whether he’s crying or just shaking, then reaches out one hand to flush and lets himself fall flat on his back onto the cold tile floor, where he lies down and blinks away the tears caused by the sudden onslaught. His heart hammers in his chest and he puts one hand on top of it, feeling it. His fingers wrap themselves around the little bell that’s still hiding beneath his coat, and he closes his eyes, suddenly feeling much too sober. He wants another kiss. He wants another story. He wants to dance _._ He wants another kiss.

There’s a knock on the door, and then Nathan’s there with a large glass of water. Miles sits up and blinks, giving him a weary smile. “I’d say I’m embarrassed, but that were the best kiss I’ve had in ages,” he mutters, accepting the glass without meeting Nathan’s eye.

“I think you should leave,” Nathan mutters. “Not because of what happened. If things were different I’d be all for you sleeping with the pretty guy. But you’re a mess. And I’m pretty sure you’ve somewhere else to be.”

Miles laughs at that because what else can he do? He’s still clutching the stupid bell through his coat, and then he can’t help but laugh some more, because hasn’t he just been incredibly fucking active today? He wanted to take matters into his own hands and hasn’t he done exactly that? He’s been a very busy bee alright.

He slowly drinks his water and Nathan nods. “Good man.”

“Why’d you say I’ve somewhere else to be? How would you know?” Miles asks, and Nathan shrugs his shoulders.

“Everybody knows. At first we all reckoned you were with Alex, hence the radio silence. You would have had us all fooled for a while longer if Alex hadn’t started asking around for you last night.”

“He asked for me?” Miles has some more water. It tastes like fresh air and as the delicious coolness of it trickles down his throat, he slowly gets his breathing back on track. It’s interesting that Alex, who despises texting with a passion, would take it upon himself to find out Miles’ friends’ phone numbers and text them. It makes him feel a bit better about himself. It also explains Jay’s rambling about flowers and romantic gestures, and Victoria pressing the matter about taking Alex to The Wirral with him. “That’s unexpected.”

Nathan shrugs his shoulders. “I think you should leave,” he repeats. “And I think Alex would agree with me. I think he’s worried. I think we all are.”

And Miles reckons that he's right; he _should_ go to Alex. If anything, if Alex sees him in this state he will realise right away that they're not compatible. It'll be like pulling off a plaster, quick and painless. And then he’ll ask Dom for Dorian’s number, and he’ll be in bed with him before the night is out. It’ll be grand. Happy Christmas to him.


	5. V

It’s a long way to Alex’s place in Shoreditch. Armed with a large bottle of water, courtesy of Dom, and a Nick Cave record in his ears, Miles braves the hour long journey. He sits by the window with his eyes closed, only moving when he needs to change trains. He buys a coke from a vending machine at Oxford Street, but to no avail; after changing to the Central Line he falls asleep and almost misses his stop on Liverpool Street. He makes the educated decision not to take the bus to Alex’s and walks the last fifteen minutes there. The myriad of colourful murals gracing the buildings around him look eerie and ghostlike in the dark. Miles quickens his pace and takes a shortcut through the small public park that has an exit right opposite Alex’s street. No matter how different the place looks in the dark, to Miles the entire neighbourhood still lives and breathes Alex. The unrest in his chest and throat settles a little as he thinks of how close Alex’s familiar living room is, and the messy overgrown garden, and the king size bed. They might not be compatible, he and Alex, but his body doesn’t care. It feels more awake now. Not by far as awake as it did this morning, but his breathing comes more freely and he feels more alert. It’s as if his frozen limbs no exactly where Miles is taking them.

As he exits the park, the large house on the corner of the street comes into view. The lights are still on, but it’s nearing one in the morning, which should be enough reason to turn around and try again tomorrow (or try again never). Now that he’s here though Miles’ feet take it upon themselves to deliver him to Alex’s doorstep. He rings the doorbell and waits.

The door opens only slightly at first. Alex’s face appears in the crack and Miles finds his eyes, dark and sleepy even as they widen. Then the door opens further and the rest of Alex comes into view. Miles’ gaze drifts from his eyes to the longish strands of dark air that frame his face and the smattering of stubble along his jaw and cheeks, which have filled out again since the last time Miles saw him. He’s in his torn _A Clockwork Orange_ T-shirt and a pair of plain black boxer shorts, and he’s holding both his phone and a glass of water in his left hand whilst his right clutches the door. His gaze flits from Miles’ eyes to his hair, to his chest and to his eyes again. “I — uh. Miles, baby. Yer ‘ere. I were joost on me way to bed,” he says in that mix of Scouse and his usual Sheffield accent that was his staple during their Puppets tour. Even these days he slips right back into it whenever they see each other. Miles swallows. Alex opens the door wider. He gestures for Miles to step inside and step inside Miles does. They don’t hug.

Alex doesn’t ask questions. He leads Miles into the kitchen, where he beckons him to sit down by the kitchen island with a distracted hand gesture. Miles sits down on the edge of his stool, ready to dart up and out if the need arises, and watches Alex move about the kitchen. He makes Miles golden brown toast and a cup of tea that is blacker than the toast Miles made himself that morning. He doesn’t sit down, but stands on the other side of the counter and nods to the cup and the plate. “Go on then,” he says, and Miles obliges. He drinks his tea, even though it’s so hot he can barely stand it, and munches his way through two slices of dry toast. It tastes heavenly. His stomach settles and by the time he’s finished his late-night breakfast, he feels a bit more human. His cheeks glow and his fingers tingle after the constant change of temperature Miles inflicted upon them over the course of the day, but it’s not unpleasant. “Thanks,” he tells Alex. The skin around Alex’s eyes crinkles as he smiles.

“Yeh looked like yeh needed it,” he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the counter. Miles can’t help but notice the way the tight shirt stretches over his pronounced upper arms. Miles likes that shirt. He likes _Alex_ in that shirt. He’s a simple man alright. He’s pretty sure Alex catches him staring, but if he does he doesn’t mention it. “Now what?” he asks instead.

Miles shrugs his shoulders. “I could tell you a story,” he suggests, because what else would he say? He knows Alex likes to hear him talk. It calms him when he’s stressed and it cheers him up when he’s feeling low. But Alex, who doesn’t look particularly stressed or down in the dumps at the moment, shakes his head. “I don’t really feel like a story tonight,” he says, his voice gravely and warm. Miles wants to reach out his hand and touch him, but he doesn’t.

“Maybe tell me what ‘appened,” Alex suggests. “I’ve been expecting yeh since last Friday, to be honest. What’s going on? Did I read the signs wrong? I’m pretty sure I didn’t read them wrong.”

Miles doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he keeps his mouth firmly shut. The mere thought of talking to Alex makes him feel like throttling himself. Alex sighs. “Alreyt. C’mon then,” he murmurs, reaching for a packet of cigarettes on the edge of the counter. “We’re going for a smoke. Yeh look like you could do with one.”

There’s barely enough room to stand in Alex’s small garden. There are only few tiles that aren’t overgrown with the plants that Alex always swears he’ll read up on and start taking proper care of. Miles places his feet between two rose branches, careful not to step on them. Alex hands him a cigarette and lights it for him, and Miles inhales deeply. He closes his eyes as he breathes out again. “Yeh’ve been askin’ after me,” he states and turns his head to look at Alex. Alex tugs the thick plaid he grabbed on his way out tighter around his shoulders and nods. He looks somehow smaller under it, but Miles can tell he isn’t nervous. He’s just smoking, his movements languid and his stance relaxed. He’s calm, but Miles can’t be calm. Miles has a panther in his stomach, ready to pounce and send him straight back to bed for another week. The nights skies are slowly turning less foggy and he wishes they’d stay just the way they’ve been all day.

Alex blows out a puff of smoke with his eyes closed and his chin tilted slightly upwards. Miles can’t keep his eyes off him. “Yeah,” he replies. “And I’ve been waitin’. I made plans and all. I were thinkin’ we could go to The Wirral for Christmas Eve and Christmas, and then stay in Sheffield for a couple days after. I promised me parents we’d be over and mum would murder me if we went to yours but not mine.”

Miles almost chokes on a mouthful of smoke. “Fuckin’ hell, Al,” he breathes. He takes another deep drag, letting the smoke chafe its way down his airways. He somehow feels like he deserves the unpleasant feeling it evokes. Tears prick behind his eyes, but he’s not about to let them go anywhere. And then suddenly Alex is way too close, and touching Miles’ wrist. “Hey, talk to me,” he mutters. But Miles can’t talk. He has stories aplenty, and good ones at that, but Alex doesn’t want to hear those. They probably wouldn’t be to his taste anyway. They’re altogether too simple. Too stupid, too dumb, too wrong.

“I thought about yer book today,” he admits. “The one with the judge.”

“Ah,” says Alex. “Yeah. You never really liked that one, did you. It’s a shame, that.” It makes Miles want to yell at him, but he doesn’t say anything. Another silence falls, in which Miles finishes his cigarette in record time. He shakes his head when Alex offers him another. Alex shrugs. He’s smiling.

Miles glares at him. “How are you so calm?” he demands. “Yeh can’t just stand there and pretend we’re good.” He hears rather than feels himself raise his voice. “We ‘aven’t kissed, we ‘aven’t even _hugged_ , everything about this is fuckin’ strange, and yer _definitely_ not invited to go to The Wirral with me. If I wanted me sorry heart broken I’d have come to you as soon as the tour ended.”

That makes Alex’s faint smile fall right off his face. “What are ye on about now? I weren’t exactly plannin’ to break yer heart, Miles. Joost wanted to take you home and show you off to me mum. She’s been begging me to seal the deal with ye already.”

“Seal the deal, eh?” Miles murmurs. He stares at their feet. Alex is wearing black socks. Miles’s have little yellow submarines on them. Miles wants to peel them off and hide them even though Alex has a similar pair of his own. Never really wears them, though.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Look, I can see that there’s summat going on with yeh and we’ll fix it, we will, but I do need to know for sure that I were right about us. That I didn’t scare you off by makin’ it clear that I were available like. Because I refuse to stand ‘ere like this any longer if it turns out yer not into the idea of us being a thing. I’ve some self-respect left, believe it or not.”

Alex is frowning now and Miles feels a little guilty for stripping him off that calm demeanour, something that could have been avoided if he’d just kept his head in the game like he was supposed to do. The air around them feels heavy and Miles breathes out a laugh, his breath turning visible in the cold. “I weren’t planning on ending up here with ya,” he admits. “I went to Victoria’s. And Dom’s. I went to a Christmas Market.”

Alex wrinkles his nose at the mention of the Christmas Market. “I know,” says Miles. “I just had to keep movin’. Still feel like I do.”

“Too bad,” Alex mumbles. “Yer ‘ere now, so best spit it out. I know yer good at that, so don’t get all coy with me now, Kane. Talk to me. Are you about to turn me down, eh?”

Miles tips his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Al_. Jesus, would you stop?”

Alex looks at him and shrugs.

“Your book,” Miles says. “Why would anyone just keep on walkin’ if they saw someone jump off a fuckin’ bridge, Al?”

Alex shrugs his shoulders. The plaid slides off his left one, but he doesn’t attempt to pull it back up. “Because they’re scared of caring,” he suggests, ever the romantic.

Miles makes a face. “No, mate, I don’t think so,” he says. “You know why someone would keep on walking? Because they don’t give a shit. Because they’ve lost the ability to care.”

“Don’t ‘mate’ me,” Alex murmurs. “You’re wrong, anyway. They’d keep walking because they’re scared, I’m tellin’ yeh. Scared of what would happen if they faced the music, like. Scared to take action. Doesn’t mean they don’t care. Means the opposite, really.” He does pull the plaid back up now. He looks cold, and “Aren’t you cold?” Miles asks.

“See,” Alex says, arching his eyebrows and giving Miles a pointed stare. “Also yes, I’m freezing. Let’s go inside, baby.” The pet name makes Miles smile, and he almost asks Alex to repeat it. Almost.

They go into the living room. The yellow sofa is barely visible under all the pillows, throws and DVD cases. Alex flops down onto it, leaving Miles to collect the plastic cases on the other side of the sofa. He does so and sets the stack down onto the coffee table. They’re old films, all of them in black and white, and he pushes at the middle one until it gives way and some of the cases tumble onto the table.

“Hey, what’d yeh do that for?” Alex pulls on his wrist. He’s shivering now, so Miles shrugs off his coat and hands it to him. The eagerness with which Alex accepts it is flattering. He buttons it all the way to his chin. Miles sits down next to him and brushes his fingers over the soft yellow suede covering the backrest. He breathes in deeply through his nose and wishes he were still nauseous, just to feel something else than the insistent hammering of his heart against his chest.

As if he’s read Miles’ mind, Alex reaches out and squeezes his arm. “You alreyt then, Miles? You don’t look alreyt.”

Miles shakes his head. If only Alex would squeeze his arm tighter. But Alex scoots closer and presses his face into the crook of Miles’ neck instead. “If you’re really considerin’ turning me down now’s the time,” he says, his voice muffled. “If not, you should probably do something now, too. That’s how this works.” He pulls gently at Miles’ arm, and Miles lets him move it until it’s around Alex’s waist, where Miles’ fingers curl around his hip on their own accord. He barely dares moving his arm as Alex settles, breathlessly waiting for the moment when he will change his mind. But Alex just sits there with his face hidden in the crook of Miles’ neck, looking quite comfortable under the large woollen coat.

“Al,” Miles mutters. His hand curls tighter around Alex’s hip. “Would you _please_ stop being so calm?”

Alex’s face appears again as he pulls back from his spot on Miles’ shoulder. He shakes his head, frowning. “Are yeh considering turning me down for real then, Miles?”

“No, Al, I’m not fucking thinking about turning you down.”

Alex shrugs and rests his face on Miles’ shoulder again. “So I’ve no reason to not be calm. You’re not about to turn me down and I just found you on me doorstep after worrying about ya for a week, so now I’m just enjoying meself. Taking it all in. You smell nice. You also smell of alcohol. But mostly you smell nice. And later, when you’re you again, I’ll want a kiss. Just givin’ yeh a heads-up.”

Miles opens his mouth and closes it again. He can’t remember Alex ever being so matter-of-fact about anything. And yet the way in which all of this is going doesn’t sit right with him; the way Alex went out of his way to make him breakfast and tea for no reason at all, the way Alex coaxed him outside and back inside again. It’s exactly like what’s been happening all day, and Miles can’t get himself to shake the unrest in his bones. He’s still just waiting for Alex to pull back and change his mind. But Alex wriggles his shoulders until one of them is pressed into the backrest and his chest comes to rest against Miles’ shoulder. Miles’ heart beats in his throat.

And then Alex _does_ bolt up. He swears under his breath and Miles tightens his grip on his waist on instinct, but Alex is already sitting back. “Fook, what the hell kind of murder weapon did yeh put in yer pocket?” he mutters, but it’s only when he reaches for his chest, his fingers pressing against the bulge there, that Miles realises. His eyes widen. He’d forgotten about the ridiculous ornament. With a growing feeling of dread, he watches Alex slip his hand in between the buttons and under the coat. When it comes back out, Alex is clutching the ornament tightly in one hand. He looks at it and then at Miles, an amused smile on his lips. “That’s quite pretty actually,” he says, turning it over in his hand. It rings gently, and his smile widens. “That’s very pretty, Miles. Definitely worth bruising me chest for. What’d you get that for? Did ye put up a tree this year?”

“It’s… They had an owl,” says Miles quickly. “It was mega. You’d have liked it better.”

Alex’s dark browns focus on him now. “ _I_ ’d have liked it better? This is for me?” He dangles the bell from his finger, the metal glinting in the light, and Miles can’t help himself: He reaches out and grabs for it, plucking it from Alex’s grip, its clear sound turning dull under his fingers. “It were a mistake,” he explains. “I wanted to get yeh the owl. It were all intricate, like.”

Alex shrugs his shoulders. He holds out his hand and arches his brows. His eyes are twinkling with that exact genuine kind of glee that tends to spark in them when he and Miles are writing songs together, and Miles finds himself handing it back over. They both look at it and then, before Miles realises what’s happening, Alex closes one hand around the ornament and curls the other around the back of Miles’ neck, pulling him close and kissing him hard. Miles gasps and puts a quick hand on Alex’s shoulder to keep from losing his balance, but Alex isn’t done yet. He puts the bell into the side pocket of Miles’ coat and, never breaking their kiss, scrambles to his knees, planting them in the sofa on either side of Miles’ legs. He’s towering over Miles now and uses both hands on either side of Miles’ face to keep him close. The calloused pads of his fingers tickle Miles’ skin and suddenly, as if they’ve jolted awake from a slumber, Miles’ senses are sharp again. Alex smells like smoke and fresh night air, mixed with the clean, neutral scent of his shampoo, and Miles gasps, tilting his head upward, encouraging Alex plunder his mouth. It’s Alex who does most of the kissing. His upper body moves with him as he parts Miles’ lips with his tongue, and Miles runs his hands over his back, feeling his muscles work. Alex pulls back for only a moment, then presses his lips to Miles’s once more and delivers a slow, lingering press of his mouth to Miles’ bottom lip. Miles blinks. His lips tingle. “Fanks,” Alex breathes against them. “That’s the strangest, sweetest thing anyone’s ever gotten me.”

“It’s only a stupid bell, Alex. What’s gotten into yeh? Are you drunk?”

“I like it. It makes me ‘appy,” Alex smiles. “It’s like yer stories; like how those make me ‘appy. Same thing.”

Miles lets his hands travel up and down Alex’s sides and rests the back of his head against the backrest, looking up at him. “My stories make you happy?”

Alex leans down for another kiss, his hands travelling from Miles’ cheeks to his chest. “Why d’yeh think I like listening to them so much?”

Miles swallows. He has no clue what Alex is on about, which isn’t the first time. It’s humiliating, is what it is. “I don’t know, and you know what, Al?” he murmurs, averting his gaze to the ceiling and keeping it there. Alex wriggles impatiently in his lap. “I’m honestly glad you like to hear me talk nonsense and all, but it makes me dead scared to be so in love with yeh sometimes. Because most of the time I feel like you’ll slip right through me fingers with yer clever books and black and white movies, and that thesaurus like brain of yours. You’re me best friend, but I’m not like you. I’m not that deep. And I feel like once you find out on me, which I’m guessing is right now, I’m gonna lose ya. And I couldn’t bear it. I was never, ever gonna turn yeh down. I’d be fool for even entertainin’ that thought, alright? But I’m fucking scared. I’ll always be scared where you’re concerned.” So far for watching his words, so far for treading lightly. He reluctantly looks down from the ceiling again and finds Alex’s eyebrows raised so high that he actually gets the urge to laugh. He may or may not let out a shaky breath instead.

“Fuck, Miles, baby,” Alex mutters, squeezing Miles’ shoulders softly. “You have to realise _why_ I like to hear you talk so much, don’t ya?” Miles just stares at him blankly and Alex squeezes harder. “I like your stories because they _aren’t_ stories, not really. Don’t think I ‘aven’t noticed. They’re you feelin’ some type of way, and you disguise those feelings as stories. Makes me heart beat faster, that. I think it’s brilliant. I think you’re brilliant.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “Would you get off your high horse? They’re just stories, Alex. They’re nothing like those books you like to read.”

Alex shrugs his shoulders. He lets his entire weight rest on Miles’ lap now, folding his legs under himself. “I could do without the books. They make me a better songwriter, but they don’t make me feel alive. Bein’ around you does do that to me, and to a lot of people. Don’t you think I worry? I’m scared too. I always imagine you havin’ a grand old time dancing your head off and kissing gorgeous guys that aren’t me, and that freaks me out. I can’t be like you are. It seemed almost impossible to me that it’d ever just be two of us.”

“Yer one to speak,” grumbles Miles. “Always datin’ interesting women. You weren’t exactly available before last week.”

Alex caresses his upper arm with his fingers. “I am now. And I know what I want, Miles.”

Miles searches his face for signs that Alex might be bullshitting him, but he can’t find any and shrugs his shoulders. He knows what he wants too, but he’s also had a long fucking day. “Were you really plannin’ on going to me mum’s with me?” he blurts out, resting both hands on Alex’s hips.

“Sure,” Alex says. He takes Miles’ hand and laces their fingers together. “Figured we could leave here at noon and stop by yours to get your stuff. I already filled up the car and all. I assumed I’d be the one doing the driving.”

And Miles can’t help but laugh at that. He half expects Alex to lead them somewhere else now, to the bedroom or the study or the bathroom even, but Alex doesn’t go anywhere. Instead, he sits down right next to Miles, pulling at the coat until it’s covering his thighs and knees, and turns on the TV. Yawning shamelessly he zaps through the channels and stops as _The Muppets Christmas Carol_ comes up. He reaches over Miles to put the remote control onto the armrest and presses a kiss to Miles’ cheekbone on his way back. “I love the blond hair, by the way,” he murmurs in his ear. “You look hot.”

And that, along with the fact that Alex just decided to watch _The Muppets_ of all things, makes Miles smile for more reason than one. He turns up the volume and puts an arm around Alex, silently encouraging him to curl up beside him. And as Alex lies there with his head first on Miles’ shoulder and then in his lap, Miles starts to feel calm again for the first time in over a week. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, humming appreciatively as Alex lays a hand on his knee. The silly movie soundtrack lulls him slowly to sleep as he plays with Alex’s hair, and he reckons it’s probably acceptable to call it a day now. Everything’s finished. It has passed. He’s breathing and moving, Alex’s head is warm in his lap, and he’s alive. It’s pretty damn obvious that he’s alive. And whatever it is that is to come — the family visits, those weird empty days after New Year’s and, most likely, another much-needed conversation between the two of them — today has been seen. It has not gone unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And c'est ca. Congrats if you made it all the way to the end, I'm very sorry for this abomination lol. Poor Gerard Reve is turning in his grave. I'd be super grateful for any and all constructive criticism, because I'm not sure how this got away from me as much as it did. Thank you for reading. :)
> 
> (n.b., Miles' arch enemy in book form is _The_ Fall by Albert Camus and the party in IV was vaguely inspired by the poem _O, de balzalen_ by Jotie T'Hooft.)


End file.
